


Unity

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9896084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: U2 decamps to newly reunified Berlin to work on their next album. If you're reading this, you can surely see the Anton Corbijn photos in your mind's eye.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which I watch “From the Sky Down” a few too many times, and decide to write a thing because of it. I must admit that setting a fic in the midst of that difficult era, when U2 were struggling to find the songs that would become “Achtung Baby,” felt a little bit sacrilegious.
> 
> I did it anyway. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> And I told myself that this time, I would finally put B and E together in a room and make them do stuff. So I did. SORT of. I’m not at all sure about any of this. But in the subsequent chapter they get out and about a bit more, and then there is more stuff! So that’s nice for all three of you faithful readers.
> 
> Regarding M’Edge: this is just the kind of thing I would say. I mean, if I knew Edge, I’d probably call him M’Edge, just to be annoying. “Yo, what up, my M’Edge?” He would abhor me.
> 
> I did some very minimal Berlin-1990 research for this, but mostly I’ve just made shit up. I’m sure vodka is produced somewhere in Belarus, but don’t go googling it.
> 
> I love and respect U2 with all the ferocity in my heart. The following is for entertainment porpoises only.

Our first full day in Berlin. We were just back from exploring the eastern reaches of the city. Now Bono stood at the window, at _my_ window, in my brown room in the Palasthotel, looking out at the Berliner Dom and the Spree. Still wrapped in his big sheepskin coat, ready to fly out again at a moment’s notice.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I like it. Vast concrete expanses, rubble from World War Two, entire squats full of punks…” 

“And a lingering sense of unease.”

“Yep.” Bono turned away from the window with a little sigh. “It’s not Arizona, is it.”

“No. Almost as desolate, but in a whole different way. I like it too.” 

Bono crossed the brown carpet, walking the walk that he alone can walk, coat swirling around him, a sturdy fashion model on an exceptionally ugly runway. Smile opening slowly, from left to right, aimed directly at me. I had dropped into one of the room’s (brown) leather chairs, but that smile put me on alert.

“Staring at me, Edge?”

“How could I not?”

“True. How _could_ you not.” 

He put his hands on my shoulders. Fingers still cold from the outdoors, yet I could feel the heat of internal fires coming through his skin. He planted a kiss on the top of my head. He looked expectant. I looked at my feet.

“Edge?”

I reached up and clasped his wrists, tugging on them gently. He thought I was playing; he pressed my shoulders even harder.

“Ow. Listen, B. I think—I think we ought to not let this happen, at least not right now.”

His smile faded, taking the light of the world with it. “Not let what happen?”

He knew what, of course. And already I was wishing I could take my words back. Just wrap my arms around his waist, press my face to his belly, and murmur _nothing, nothing, never mind_. 

But I was apprehensive. That was the truth. Over the last year, the world—not just the big world, not just Europe, but _our_ world, our small world inside the wider one—had been shaken out of its orbit. The band. Us. Me. Especially me. I was a bit like Berlin myself. Uneasy, and strewn with rubble.

“It’s just that everyone’s here with us, B. Right here. The whole team.” I shrugged. “Even Flood.”

Brief smile. “Flood.” 

“I just feel a bit uncomfortable, Bono. I’m sorry.” 

“Because everyone’s here?” He gestured toward the closed door, the hallway beyond. “Do you think they don’t know?”

“You think they do? It was just—”

“No no, I suppose they couldn’t really know anything. But what difference would it make if they did?”

“Are you serious? You’re a married man. A _famously_ married man. You have a new baby. We’re in a band together. A massive band. I mean, we’re—” 

I stopped. These arguments didn’t amount to much; I knew that. I myself was a separated man. I had _three_ babies. I wanted Bono anyway. He had taken up residence in my heart, slowly but surely over time, leaving small personal relics here and there, an earring, a ribbon, a hat, until all my old furniture was shoved up against the walls to make room. He knew this. I was sure he did. He looked down at me now, his right eye unbearably gentle, his left eye burning through to the back of my skull. 

“I don’t think anyone here would tell on us, Edge.” 

He laid his hand on my cheek. I could have closed my eyes, rested my tired head against his hand, kissed his palm. But I didn’t. Heart of stone, that was me.

“There’s also Larry and Adam to consider. We dragged them over here to make a record…” Not to bear witness to our endless mating dance.

“Right.” Bono pulled his hand away. I felt the cold air on my face. “You know, if anyone does suspect, it’s Adam and Larry.”

“I do wonder. They wouldn’t mind, though. As long as we didn’t—you know.” 

“Make a spectacle of ourselves and break up the band? No, of course they wouldn’t mind.” Bono looked blank for a second, as the prospect of the band breaking up wasn’t really that far-fetched. I knew he worried about this in his private moments, as I did. “Anyway, at what point did you start believing that the record is one thing, and that you and I are something else? Something separate? The songs are us. The record will be us.”

I felt at a disadvantage, sitting in the brown chair. I stood up. An inch-and-a-half taller than Bono—provided I stood really straight. 

“You’re contradicting yourself, B. You usually say that the songs already exist somewhere else, on another plane. That they merely use us as vessels.” 

He didn’t answer. His silence was not a good sign. I could see his face closing down the way it does sometimes, the lines deepening, lips grim. I could have just taken hold of him then; I could have kissed his lips till they were full and rosy again. I could have held him close, I could have told him that I didn’t care at all that he couldn’t keep his philosophies in order, I could have touched him, I could possibly, hopefully, have had him singing like the bird he sometimes resembled. But why not continue my willful descent into hell instead? 

“Anyway,” I said, “as of now, the songs barely exist anywhere.”

Bono flopped onto on my bed. He swung his feet up on the duvet. Still wearing his coat. (Ready to walk out.) Still wearing his boots too. (Ready to walk out, and getting my bed dirty.) He reached into an inner pocket, drew out one of his miniature cigars and lit it, sucking on it till his cheeks were hollow. Were he not a great humanitarian, he would have been a genius at torture. I sank back into the chair.

“Why do you think we’re struggling? With the songs, I mean.” Blowing a stream of pungent smoke at the ceiling.

“I don’t know.” This wasn’t true; I had many, many ideas. But I was too distracted to enumerate them.

“I think I know why.” A sidelong look. One blue eye, the profile of a small but deadly raptor. 

“All right, tell me.”

“I think—” sucking on the stupid cigar—“it’s because you and I are trying to write our way _around_ this particular topic, rather than deal with it.”

Well, obviously. But between the two of us, we had an awful lot of topics to cover. Avoiding one, even if it was a big, awkward, potentially disruptive one, should still have left us plenty of material to work with. 

I looked up at the ceiling (thankfully not brown.) “I just want to make funky dance-grooves and use my fuzz box a lot. Is that so much to ask?”

Bono laughed, thank God, and crushed out the stupid cigar in a brown ashtray on the brown bedside table. “Come over here.” Patting the (brown-ish) duvet. “Come on. Just lie down next to me. I’m cold, and I’m lonely. Please.”

I could not argue with cold and lonely, could I. Not that I believed him on either count. I trudged across the bloody brown room and sat on the edge of the bed, and made a show of removing my boots.

“Oh, right.” Bono kicked his own boots off violently.

I stretched out beside him and, as ever, this closeness felt more right than anything else in my life. This was where I was meant to be. Beside Bono. His right-hand man.

He touched my face again, and all the thoughts I normally kept below the surface—I mean, a whole flood of truly insipid love-words—rose up in my mind, spilling onto the decks, washing away all coherent thought. _My warm baby, my darling angel, my sweetest boy_. Fortunately the captain was still in charge of the ship—tied to the mast, but still alive—shouting into the spray, _Don’t say that! He doesn’t love you the way you love him! Don’t say any of it!_

“How the hell can you be cold in this coat?” My voice as gruff as I could make it.

“I meant it metaphorically.” 

“Of course you did.”

Bono rolled over then, and, with a single acrobatic movement, sat himself astride my hips.

_“God!”_

“No, just me. Though I’m told the resemblance is uncanny.”

“You never shut the fuck up, do you.”

“Nope.”

“Well, the coat is a nice touch, like an ermine robe, very appropriate for the King of the Universe. But all this other stuff…” I tugged at his shirt, seeking buttons. I’d forgotten about our nonexistent songs for the moment. Let alone the captain’s voice.

“Not so fast there, Evans.” Bono grabbed my hands, and I allowed him to pin them down at my sides. “You’re the one who said—” pitching his voice nastily high— “‘I don’t think we should let this _happen_ right now.’”

“I was wrong. I was deeply wrong, and I apologize profusely for my lapse in judgment.”

“Apology accepted. Grudgingly.” He leaned down toward me, smoky breath, all that beautiful warm hair on my face, and began to sing in my ear. _“So if the spirit moves you, let me groove you good—”_

“—don’t you Marvin-Gaye me, Bono.” Struggling to free my hands. “This is Berlin. Shouldn’t you be singing some German _lieder_ or something?”

“German lederhosen.” His mouth still very close to my ear. “Stop all that writhing.”

“I don’t think I can.” 

“Oh, my Edge. M’Edge, for short. That’s spelled em-apostrophe-Edge, by the way. M’Edge.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what, M’Edge?” He untied my bandana and threw it aside, and began to disarrange my hair, tugging it with his fist, then letting it slide through his fingers, creating little arpeggios on my scalp that ran down into my limbs, and elsewhere. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I moved my newly liberated hands up and down his back, under his shirt, under the damned coat. His skin like hot silk.

“Your face is my favorite face, Edge.”

“Surely not.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop that writhing? It’s very distracting, and your hands… Listen, your face is amongst my favorite faces. So beautifully chiseled here—” he leaned down again to kiss my nose—“and here—” my chin—“but you’ve got a forehead just like a caveman.”

“You wound me.”

“I happen to find cavemen very attractive.” Teeth at my earlobe.

“You don’t.”

“I do! What have you got against cavemen?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to look like one. Let’s discuss your monumental nose instead.”

“Leave my nose out of this. You’re a caveman-bigot. It’s shocking, Edge. I’m gonna start a petition.”

“Bono. Kiss me. No, kiss me properly.”

“I don’t kiss bigots.”

“Bono.”

He kissed me properly. And once more the wave of stupid, pretty words breached the ship of my mind, inundating the decks, all hands lost, the captain nowhere to be found. _My blue-eyed boy, my hummingbird, my Sunday best._ He let his coat slide from his shoulders, finally, kicking it to the foot of the bed, and allowed me to unbutton his shirt.

I raised my head, pressed my lips to the dark hair at the center of his chest. Warm skin, breastbone, his heart beating steadily underneath, his breath quickening in little puffs. 

“How can you be so hard and so soft at the same time? You’re gorgeous.”

“Edge.” Pushing me back into the pillows. “ _You_ are gorgeous. My gorgeous green-eyed monster.”

The captain was truly lost now. The ship gone under. A sad day at sea. 

It was ages since I’d been kissed like this, since I’d kissed anyone like this, hungry, then tender, stopping to take little gulps of air, our faces still pressed together. I grazed Bono’s neck with my teeth, just to hear the sound I knew he would make, almost like singing. That voice. Whispers and moans like the dreams of entire stadiums full of girls. All because of me. Because of the way I kissed him, because of the way I held on to his hips, keeping him right where I wanted him. Hardly moving at all, just enough. I opened my eyes to that blue gaze, like no one else’s, one eye caressing, one eye piercing. Both beloved.

“Edge.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Pretty Edge. Let’s switch places, please. You’re a little bit dainty, but I wouldn’t mind at all if you attempted to crush me into the mattress.”

“Dainty? I’ll show you dainty.” My hands on his ass (quite a handful), pushing up against him, making him arch his back so I could study his neck some more, the underside of his chin, the black hair falling back over his shoulders. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Edge.” Laughing at me between ragged breaths. “No.”

“Yeah. You are.”

“No, _you_ are.” Bending to kiss me again, his skin burning hot, his fingertips on my face, my eyelids, my lips, my neck, my chest, murmuring _Edge_ between kisses, _Edge_ between little bites. Carbonating my blood.

We were still new to each other, as strange as that might seem. Everything that happened between us until now had been rushed, furtive. A brief encounter on a hotel roof during someone else’s after-party. A slow-dance at another party that began as a joke, then sent us desperately looking for a private room, first Bono, closing the door behind him, then me, slipping in a discreet two minutes later. Coming almost silently into each other’s hands, then having to go back to the party like plain old Bono and Edge. One sunset hour in Bono’s house when no one else was home—but always alert for an opening door or a footfall on the stairs. 

And, almost lost to the sands of time, a whole series of early-days, back-of-the-van, after-the-gig gropes, which seemed very important when they happened, and less important later on. But they felt important again, to me. I felt about seventeen years old right now.

So it was the hideous brown Palasthotel Berlin, days after the Reunification, that finally gave us the time and space to enjoy a sort of demi-virginal wrestling match. I knew it would be a fleeting event, just like the parties out in the streets. After this, things would get complicated, one way or another. I wanted to prolong this moment—this moment that I’d nearly chased away. 

Per his request, I attempted to crush Bono into the mattress. I liked watching him from this vantage point. The way his face changed, the way his breathing changed, every time I moved. And yet we were still, for the most part, dressed.

“You’re a skinny boy, but you’re a bit like coiled steel…aren’t you, Edge.”

“Do you want me to be coiled steel?”

The warmth of him beneath me. 

“God…yes.”

“Then I will be.”

“You should get these arms out when we’re on stage. In full view.”

“Full view?” My tongue on his nipple.

“Yes, love… God. Yes, in full view of all those randy girls.”

“Oh yeah?” The other nipple. “The randy girls?” Pressing my advantage.

“Yeah. Oh… there’ll be riots. Please keep doing that.”

I obeyed. He ground against me, making helpless sounds. I felt like I could split him in half. Not that I would ever hurt a fly. But I _could._

“Edge… how about freeing me from this sartorial prison? Please?”

“Hm…maybe not just yet. I kind of like you like this.”

“Like what?” 

“Like a Mills and Boon wench.” Pressing my lips to his neck, just under his ear. Murmuring against his skin. “Half-undressed. Bodice ripped, chest heaving—” 

“You read those?”

“—my, um, coiled steel driving you to a frenzy.”

“Listen to you, Dread Pirate M’Edge.”

“Oh, I like that.”

“Kiss me. No, kiss me properly.”

I kissed him properly. His forehead. His eyebrows like dark, soft wings. His eyelids, lavender and heartbreakingly delicate, like baby’s skin. His nose that always made me imagine biblical prophets, Persian poets, ancient kings. All the conflicting elements that made him beautiful.

His mouth then. For a very long time. 

“Edge…”

“Bono.”

Running his thumbs over my cheekbones, giving me the most kittenish version of his smile. “Edge, I am going to politely request that, sometime in the near future, we do something to get each other off.”

“Oh my. Well, of course. But I think I like making you wait.”

“But Edge…” Undulating a little beneath me. The heat radiating between us, almost a solid presence. “This is beginning to feel like one of those songs that just keeps building and never fucking resolves.”

“Hm. One of our new ones, then.”

“Edge.” 

“But it’s all right, isn’t it?” Leaning down to tease his ear with my tongue. “It’s all right, it’s all _righ_ -hight.”

“God…you’re so cruel. I never knew.” 

“I don’t think I knew either.” Giving him a slow bump and grind while he nearly chewed through my shoulder. It was, in fact, all right.

*

Through the window, the lights of the cathedral, the sky blue-black as a raven’s wing.

“Edge… Hey. You remember we’re supposed to meet Frick and Frack for dinner in about twenty minutes, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Wait. Meet who for what?” 

Bono’s hand was deeply involved in my hair. I was resting my cheek on his hip for a moment, thinking it was finally time to free him from his sartorial prison. That I had prolonged long enough.

“Edge…you know. Thing One and Thing Two.”

“You mean Adam and Larry?” I could hardly catch my breath. 

“Yes. Them.” Bono gave a little businesslike thrust. “So get off me.”

“Now? Why? Do we care about dinner? We were sort of just getting started here.” I didn’t need food. My blood was coursing with sugar. 

“Edge. We have to care. A little bit anyway. Duty calls.” Another push. “Why weren’t _you_ watching the time? Being the responsible one doesn’t suit me.”

“Then don’t be the responsible one. And I won’t either. We’ll pretend we fell asleep. We can be late for dinner. It won’t be the first time.” 

He reached up and turned on the bedside light. We both had to cover our eyes. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, a little unsteadily.

“Sweetheart,” I said. 

“Who, me?”

“Come back. I’m sorry... I want to make you come.” I had rarely ever said such a thing out loud. I felt like my head was on fire. “Please.”

“My goodness, Edge.” A wicked little grin on his face. “I think it’s too late now.”

I knew then that he was worrying about the record, about business, or else he would still be in my bed. Wouldn't he? His hair was in snarls, his shirt hanging open. The top button of his jeans was open as well. He was visibly, gratifyingly hard. My beard had rubbed his face and his neck raw. Poor baby. He was so beautiful that I ached to my very roots. 

“Well, you can’t go out into the hall like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a Ballymun schoolgirl who’s been getting dry-humped on the soccer pitch all afternoon.”

That smile, opening up like a gift. “Oh, and why would I look like that, I wonder.”

“I’m serious. Button your shirt, at least.”

“You worry too much about what other people think.”

I shook my head. “Classic projection.”

“Shut up.” He was still smiling while he buttoned his shirt.

“We can continue this later though? Maybe you’ll let me get past second base.”

“ _I'll_ let _you?_ ” He looked exasperated, then decided to play along. He picked up his coat and swung it over his shoulder. “Anyway, you’re mixing your sport metaphors.”

“Come on, you let me last time.”

“Just because I let you do something once doesn’t mean I have to let you every time.” 

“God, you really do sound like a schoolgirl.”

“I’ve been reading _Sassy_. Just for the music articles of course.”

“The music articles. You mean, the ‘Cute Band Alerts?’”

“Gotta keep up with the competition, Edge.”

“Bono.”

“M’Edge.”

“Bono. What I said earlier—that I didn’t think we should let this happen—I was serious. I was serious at that moment anyway.” 

“I know you were.” He looked a bit contrite.

I was sprawled on the bed, in mental and physical distress, while he stood over me, properly buttoned up now, holding his coat like a yuppie heading for the office. I wondered how he was able to cool down so quickly. I wondered if I should feel hurt.

“Your boots.”

“Right.” He scooped them up and stood there holding them, along with the coat.

“Look,” I said, “anyway, it wasn’t really so much about the band, or the record. It’s just that everything’s been so shite for me lately, and I hate the idea of anyone else going through—you know what I mean. Ali—”

“Shit, I need to call her. Look, we’ve already talked about this—”

“We have, yes, but we never seem to get very far.” I felt too vulnerable lying there. I rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, wrapped myself in the duvet. “Listen, you still believe in God, don’t you?”

“Edge, yes. You know that.”

“Okay. So why would he—that’s ‘He,’ with the capital ‘H’—give us these um, attachments to—these feelings for—more than one person? Considering the potentiality for damage, heartbreak, and misery?”

“You mean, why would God let you want to fuck someone who’s not actually your wife, when you’re so clearly a nice, good boy who can barely say the word ‘come?’” Bono smiled again. His version of God, I happened to know, was infinitely forgiving, and pretty easy-going on the concept of sin. In that way, He really did resemble Bono. 

“Yeah. Or maybe it’s not God at all. Maybe it’s the other guy.”

“I don’t really believe in the other guy, Edge.”

“You don’t believe in the devil?” Attempting a smile. “You don’t believe his book? But the truth—”

“Don’t you rattle-and-hum me, The Edge. I thought we’d agreed.”

“Sorry. I know you hate that.”

He winked. “Love. Get dressed, for fuck’s sake. I’ll see you at dinner.”

The door clicked shut behind him. To be left alone so abruptly felt like a slap, but maybe a slap was what I deserved, as I seemed to lack all the courage of my convictions. I lay down again and reached for my pillow. It smelled, of course, of Bono’s stupid little cigars.

*

There was good, dark beer in Berlin. There was also some kind of rare, potent Belarusian vodka that you could probably have used to dissolve a murder victim. I discovered the vodka courtesy of a young lady named Gisela, who recognized me, who loved The Joshua Tree, and insisted on buying me a drink. But that was _after_ dinner with the band.

I was late, of course. The restaurant was an out-of-place Italian joint on a street bordering the Tiergarten. Bono, Adam, and Larry were already seated at a table in the back. Adam and Larry got up to hug me, as if we hadn’t just seen each other a couple of hours before. Well, probably at least six hours before. Or more like eight. It had been an eventful day.

Bono just sat there holding his drink. His stillness drew the attention of the other two. That, and his smile, incandescent as a slice of moon in the gloomy dining room. I felt myself grinning back like an idiot.

“What kept you,” he asked.

“Oh you know. I had to take care of a little something of before I could head out.”

His laugh was glorious. I was pleased.

“What’s the joke?” Guileless Adam, our nearsighted Lothario.

“This is sure to be a long and complicated tale, Adam.” Larry sat down and hoisted his wine glass. Only Larry could make a piece of delicate stemware look like a beer mug. “You’ll be sorry you asked.”

“It was long and complicated, all right.” Bono patted the chair next to his, and I sat. I felt it was in my best interests—probably in everyone’s best interests—for me to be compliant for the rest of the night.

We tried to to talk about the songs. We really did. We tried to find some kind of Unified Field Theory for the new record. We ended up talking about anything and everything else. We ate too much. I ate some osso bucco and felt guilty, but almost happy. Under the table, Bono pressed his thigh against mine. We stayed like that until it was time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> U2 decamps to newly reunified Berlin to work on their next album. If you're reading this, you can surely see the Anton Corbijn photos in your mind's eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A night in Berlin! Or, the aftermath of an abruptly-ended makeout session and a pleasant dinner with the band!
> 
> This chapter is a monster; it goes EVERYWHERE. I’m so sorry. There’s lots of fretting and analytical chit-chat. And other things.
> 
> Gisela, the young woman who tries her luck with Edge, appeared in my brain fully-formed. I don’t know why. But I think her dark, observant eyes can be attributed to several people in this smol fandom. 
> 
> If you’re wondering: “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” is an old song by Crosby Stills & Nash. It was written about the singer Judy Collins. I think if my Edge heard it in a bar at midnight, it would make him think of my Bono. 
> 
> Both guys seem to sound increasingly Irish as the chapter progresses. The more I write at 4 a.m., the more Irish they get. Conclusion: everyone is Irish at 4 a.m., even me.
> 
> I fully expect to see [likeamadonna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna), [spacemonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey), and [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/pseuds/fouroux) in hell! <3 you guys.

The club we’d been told was the “best in Berlin” was kind of heavy on Depeche Mode. But the presence of women made the air feel less volatile there than in the streets, where young men from distant outposts of the former GDR were beginning to swarm—not something any of us wanted to deal with much.

We walked into the familiar nighttime smells of alcohol, smoke, and perfume; the familiar sight of strobe lights pulsing over self-conscious bodies. We could have been in any city at all.

Then we split up, and went looking for epiphanies (Bono), women (Adam), and whatever (Larry.) I lurked around the outskirts of the dance floor, wondering if I should ask the DJ for some Einstürzende Neubauten or KMFDM. Something that was German, for heaven’s sake. And loud. And aggressive.

In spite of my lost-boy/pirate look, I managed to blend in, at least for a while. Not so our Bono. Within minutes I spotted him standing at the bar, an auburn-haired girl melting into his side, while her blonde friend looked on disconsolately. I wasn’t sure this counted as an “epiphany,” but with Bono, you never knew.

My heart went out to the blonde girl. In fact, my heart went out to _me_. I had been watching Bono flirt with all kinds of people for the last fifteen years, but tonight I just couldn’t take it. _He’s mine_ , I thought, and kept thinking it. _Back off, Helga. He is mine_.

I didn’t like this side of myself at all. A better person might have strolled on up to the bar, helped Bono out, picked up the slack with Blondie. But I had nothing to offer her. Nothing cute, nothing clever. The auburn girl was whispering in Bono’s ear. Or was she? Was he kissing her? But then he looked up and laughed, and put his free arm around the blonde girl, making her shimmer.

It was fine. He was just having fun. I was his best friend; his creative partner. Furthermore, I’d spent a good part of the day rolling around with him on a large bed. I had made him gasp and moan and whisper my name. Sorry, _frauleins_.

“I know who you are.”

An accuser. I turned to my left and saw a great-looking woman, just a bit taller than me. Short spiky black hair and enormous dark eyes, lots of silver hardware in her ears. A tough look, but God love her, she was blushing.

“You’re from U2. You’re The _Etch_.” Shouting a little to be heard above the music.

“I’m afraid so,” I said.

“I’m Gisela. I’m a big fan.” She held out her hand, all rings and bangles. “You’ll let me buy you a drink?”

“Oh, no. I’ll buy _you_ one though.”

“No, you should let me. I wanted to tell you how much I love The Joshua Tree. I still listen to it all the time.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“You play beautifully. So big and open.” She made open-handed gestures in the air. “Like bells ringing.”

Always the damned bells. If a bell had walked up to me just then, I’d’ve kicked its arse. “You’re lovely to say so, thank you.”

She drew closer to me. Her small breasts under her lacy black blouse pressed into my arm. Recent events aside, I did in fact like women quite a bit.

“I saw Bono at the bar,” she said. “And Adam, dancing. You’re all here together?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Ah. You’re observing the political situation.”

“Hm? Oh no, we’re here to work on our new record.”

“A new record! I’m so excited! When will it be out?”

Rather than weep, I shrugged. “We’re only just getting started, really.”

“Oh.”

We stood side by side, watching the dancers and trying to talk, but it was hard to hear her above the music. (New Order. In _Berlin_.) And of course I was still keeping one eye on Bono.

The auburn girl and her friend had gone off somewhere. A big man was looming over Bono now, leaning down to talk right into his face. Drunk, swaying a bit, gesturing with his hands. People liked to talk to Bono, and he liked to talk to them. But this didn’t look like a comfortable talk. Bono was doing all the listening. That was unusual. And the guy looked a little unglued.

Bono… looked small. Bono _was_ small. I forgot sometimes. He was brilliant and hilarious, irritating, magnetic, divine. But when he wasn’t being any of those other things, he was merely a small man with long hair and earrings, and a face that looked, from this distance, delicate and pale.

“You’re worried about him.” I’d nearly forgotten Gisela for a few seconds, but she was watching me. “Do you know that guy who’s talking to him?”

“No, I don’t. And yes, I’m a little worried.”

“You love him.”

I glanced at her. She could see right through me.

“I do of course,” I said. Leave it at that.

The big guy was still talking. Bono was leaning well back from him. Why didn’t he just walk away? His concern for the less fortunate would be his undoing.

I wondered whether I’d be able to take a good swing at the guy if it came to that. Maybe if I caught him by surprise. I was used to hefting guitars, equipment. I’d smashed some stuff in my day. I’d even punched Bono once, back in the dark ages. But violence wasn’t my natural state.

I tried telepathy. I stared at the guy’s head. I thought, _if you take one step closer to Bono, I will fly at you and remove your spleen with my bare hands. If you hurt Bono, I will rip your heart out and feed it to the vultures._

While I was committing these imaginary atrocities, Adam appeared on the scene; a golden angel. He touched the big guy on the shoulder. Shook his hand, started talking, deflecting some of the attention from Bono. Then he stood by with his arms folded, not to be trifled with. Bono beamed at him. I knew Adam must have walked away from some kind of promising situation just to protect Bono, and I loved him for it.

Gisela tugged at my arm. “It’s all right now, you see? Dance with me, Etch, please. You’re my favorite.”

As I was feeling a bit useless, I could not resist the idea of being someone’s favorite. I danced with Gisela for the space of one song. It was “P-Machinery,” by Propaganda. German, but still a bit light for my taste. I really wanted to hear chainsaws.

*

I bought Gisela a drink—a Belarusian vodka, her favorite. I had one as well. It was very much like drinking a solvent, even with ice. It reactivated the wine and beer I’d drunk earlier. I found myself reeling, not unpleasantly. I considered her next offer. She lived nearby, alone. She told me again that I was her favorite. She was quite pretty, and her spiky hair was surprisingly soft. Then she touched the tip of my nose and said it was perfect—unwittingly echoing what Bono had said earlier in the day.

The truth? He was the only one I wanted to take home.

I gave Gisela my little spiel: she was a beautiful woman, but I didn’t get involved with fans because I considered it unethical (a slight exaggeration.) I was still married (technically true), and I was expected at the studio first thing in the morning (sure.) I kissed her on the cheek; I wrote her a little note on a cocktail napkin and signed it. She seemed happy enough. She told me to give Bono her best.

I had a look round the club, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor were Larry and Adam. On my own again, naturally.

*

I took a taxi to the hotel. Bono was not in his room, unless he had sneaked in and was too dead to the world to hear me knocking. But most likely he was still out somewhere. I decided to lie in wait in the lobby, on one of its comfy brown sofas.

I was still drunkish. I pretended that the whole place was crawling with Stasi, and that I worked for the MI6. Then I picked up a copy of _Der Spiegel_ , but of course I couldn’t understand anything in it. Making up my own stories to accompany the pictures was like a creative writing exercise.

I dozed off for a bit, and woke up to find Bono standing over me, bleary-eyed, wearing his big coat and a bemused half-smile. To open your eyes on the person you want to see most in the entire world—well. It’s certainly not unpleasant.

“Whatcha doin’ down here, The Edge?”

“Waitin’ for you.”

“Oh M’Edge. Well, you looked _busy_ at the club, so I left with Adam. We found Larry hunkered down in an old beer hall in a dark alley somewhere. Oompah music and waitresses with their braids wrapped around their heads—swear to God! They’re probably still there. I was afraid—I thought you might have left with someone.”

“No.”

“Then I figured if you were here at all, you’d be up in your room, asleep. Or reading about Stockhausen or something.”

“I was reading _Sassy_. Strictly for the political coverage.”

Bono held his hand out to me. I let him pull me to my feet.

*

“I’m sorry about the brown hotel,” I said. We were in Bono’s room, the mirror-image of mine but slightly less tidy. We sat very close together on a little settee, neither of us quite brave enough, or alert enough, to cross over to the bed. Not just yet.

“The hotel is certainly not your fault.”

“But you deserve better scenery. I feel responsible.”

“You always feel responsible!”

“I feel a lot of things.”

“Do tell.”

“Hey, what was your man saying to you? That big guy at the bar?”

Bono shrugged. “I really don’t know. He was making a speech in this half-English, half-German hybrid language. Airing his grievances. So I just let him talk. What could I do?”

“You could have just stepped away from him. I was worried about you.”

That left eyebrow of his. “Yeah, so worried you just stood there watching, with that tall spiky girl.”

“You saw us, did you?”

“I am all-seeing. She obviously wanted to eat you up.” He took my hand and gave it a little squeeze, and looked at me in that way he had, up from under his eyebrows, the way he looked at good food or beautiful women. “Can’t blame her.”

“Bono…” I squeezed his hand back; interlaced my fingers with his. Hoping I didn’t feel like a clammy teenager. “Anyway, when Adam descended like the Angel of Death, I figured everything was okay.”

“Oh yeah, Adam. Always my hero.”

That jealousy again—so terribly misplaced this time. I’m a thinker; I’m slow to react. I believe that these are good traits in general. I certainly appreciate them in other people. But I should have been able to—

“I can hear you scolding yourself, Edge. Quit it.” Bono let go of my hand and put his arm around my neck. Pulled me close to him. My back against his chest, so warm and good. I closed my eyes. “With Adam,” he said, “I worry sometimes that he feels he’s expendable. He might think that smashing his knuckles to bits on someone’s face isn’t a big deal, whereas if you did it—”

“Oh, he can’t feel that way. That’s unacceptable. We should call him right now, both of us, and leave him a message. Tell him how much we love him. Tell him what an unparalleled bass player he is. That he’s the greatest thing since Jaco Pastorius—”

“Let’s not get crazy, Edge.”

“Okay then, since…that guy, Flea.”

“Still crazy. But no one wants him to play like Flea anyway.”

“True.”

Bono tried to pull me even closer, a physical impossibility. “You’re my hero too,” he whispered. “You know that.”

I wanted then, very much, to finish what we’d started that afternoon. But I had to talk to him first. There were other people and things that needed to be addressed. If I could just clear them out of my brain. “Listen,” I said. “Yesterday morning, before we went out, I called home. Well, ‘home,’ in quotes. And I asked Aislinn how she was, and how the girls were doing, and she said ‘great!’ I mean, ‘great!’ all chirpy, like a talk show host or something. Like she had better people to talk to, places to go.”

Bono kept his arm around my neck and stayed very still. “She just doesn’t want you to worry, Edge.”

“But I am worried. I’m worried that everything really _is_ great. I don’t want it to be great. I mean, of course I want the little ones to be great, but I don’t want _her_ to feel great. Is that terrible?”

“No. It’s understandable.”

“Now I’ve made _you_ feel terrible.”

“Not at all.” A minute went by. He began to stroke my hair; I could feel his breath near my ear. “Why didn’t you go with the tall girl tonight, Edge? You’re free, after all.”

“Am I?” Free was the last thing I wanted to be.

“Edge… Well, as free as you want to be. I can’t exactly claim you one hundred percent, can I.”

“I suppose not. Jesus B., I’m scared.”

“Shush. Of what?”

“If we—look, if you and I—if people find out, and they’re bound to, the world won’t be so friendly to us anymore. Okay, in some circles it will be, but in most it won’t. Do you want to keep being U2, or do you want to be ‘that gay band’ U2? Because if it gets out, it will subsume everything else.”

“Edge. I want to keep being U2, with you, no matter what _we_ become, no matter what U2 becomes.”

I wanted to melt into him then, as naturally as the auburn girl at the club, to just lose myself in the warmth of him, no matter how we began or ended. But some noisy part of me kept demanding reassurance. “How can you be so sure? What about Frick and Frack?”

“Look, everyone sort of hopes Larry is gay anyway.” Bono chuckled. “That face. The _arms_ of him.”

“Yeah, they’re impressive. All right, but he’s given no _evidence_. It’s wishful thinking. Not like—”

“Edge.”

“What.”

“Please just relax.” Bono took me by the shoulders, and rearranged my compliant self until I was lying with my head in his lap, my knees hooked over the arm of the tiny sofa.

I felt dizzy lying on my back, looking up at him as he smiled down at me. That stubborn chin I’d known for half my life now, with its little crescent-shaped scar—poor kid. The cleft, and that odd little dint under his lower lip, like an extra muscle for pouting. The nose, impressive from any angle. The horizontal span of his eyes. The absurd blueness of them.

“Pretty boy.” I said it out loud. It didn’t matter now.

“ _You’re_ the pretty boy. You always have been.”

“Yesterday you said I was a caveman.”

“You’re the pretty caveman, then. The most evolved one. The dainty one.”

“Fuck off, I’m not dainty.”

“Just accept it, Edge.”

He was looking at me as if he might really love me. I couldn’t quite believe it. And I still couldn’t seem to shut up. Maybe if I just kept talking, I would finally say the thing that changed his mind, and then he would send me across the hall to my own room, and we could just continue on the way we had been before, friends and bandmates. I didn’t want that to happen at all, but I had to push it, just to see if it would.

“I always thought I’d be like my parents. Fall in love with some ideal girl, stick together, be happy.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“I know you didn’t have that growing up, Bono. But you have it now. And you’re gonna mess it up. With me.” God Edge, please shut the fuck up. “Or with someone else.”

“Edge, settle down. You’re a good boy, all right? I know. Everyone knows.”

“Don’t call me a good boy.”

“Okay. You’re a bad boy, but you want to be good.” He opened my collar button, then my second button, slipped his hand inside my shirt, and began to stroke my chest slowly and carefully, as if I were a cat. “You gorgeous, furry caveman.”

“You’re pretty furry yourself.”

“Not quite like you.” Moving his hand inexorably toward my belly, shifting his legs a bit under my weight. “You’ve got a pelt.”

I began to slip into a state of erotic expectation. Finally.

“Here’s what I think,” Bono continued. “Love is just this thing that we each carry around in us, all the time. Maybe we’re meant to share it with more than one person. Or maybe some of us just _have_ to do that, because we’re so needy that we would eventually wear one person out.”

“I want you to wear me out,” I murmured. But I don’t think he heard.

“And maybe other people _can_ limit it to one person. But maybe that changes over the course of a lifetime. You can start out one sort of person, then someone comes along who makes you into the other sort of person.”

“Stop.” I stilled his hand with both of mine. I couldn’t think with him making those hot little circles on my body. “Do you—do you say these things to Ali?”

“Well, we’ve talked about ‘Life on the Road,’ ad infinitum. I mean—”

“Right, but this is different.” I didn’t want to hear any ‘Life on the Road’ stuff from him. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. And no. It doesn’t feel any different to me.”

I looked up at him again, and saw that his eyes had taken on a mystical gleam. He was not really thinking about ‘Life on the Road’ at all. Thankfully.

“I mean,” he said, “when we’re on stage together, I look to my left and I see Adam, and I adore him. I’d do anything for him, and yes, he might just have saved my life a few times. But then I look to my right and see you.” He touched my lips with his finger. “And it’s something else entirely. You’re meant to be there, that’s all. You feel like another piece of my soul, like a parent or a child. I shouldn’t say that, it’s not very sexy. Like a wife? I’m sorry. But I hope you know what I mean.”

“I believe I do.”

“Edge.”

“Yes?”

“You look very fierce. What are you thinking?”

“I’m waiting for that parent/child image to dissipate so I can—”

“Edge. Kiss me. No, kiss me properly.”

*

So for the second time that day—or was it the next day? I had Bono in my arms, just as I wanted him. I lifted him almost off his feet as we staggered in the middle of the carpet, halfway between couch and bed.

“You really are like coiled steel,” he murmured.

“I told you that if you wanted coiled steel, I would be coiled steel.” His neck, his gorgeous neck was warm under my lips. “But if you decide you’d rather have something dainty… like a bolt of silk, I’ll be that. I’ll be the ocean. A sailboat. A featherbed. Anything.”

“Pretty words, Edge. I want exactly what you are. I always have.”

“Bono.”

“But now I want you in my bed.”

“All right.”

“And take your fucking clothes off this time. And mine.”

“Absolutely. I’ll start right now.”

I pushed him away a little—not far at all—and unbuttoned his shirt. He’d only two buttons buttoned anyway, so it didn’t take long. The shirt slid to the floor. And there he stood, suddenly demure with his hair falling over his face, and his big shoulders, and those lovely arms whose exposure in Rattle and Hum had so bothered one male film reviewer that he went on about them for two paragraphs. We’d had a good laugh over that. It seemed even funnier to me now.

“What?”

“Your ‘Washington Post Film Review’ arms,” I said. “That’s what. Why must I keep being forced to look at them?”

“Oh, I know. It’s a tragedy for you, The Edge.”

“It is, it is. Bring them here. Come on.”

I eased him down onto the bed, on his back. And I kissed his left arm, slowly, methodically, from his shoulder to the inside of his wrist. “So hideous,” I murmured. “All nutmeg and cinnamon. Just a nightmare to behold.”

“Nutmeg? That’s the kind of thing a caveman would say to his mate.”

“Isn’t it just.”

He wriggled impatiently out of his black jeans, and his underwear (also black—typical) and kicked them away. Strange, I’d seen him in the nip many times, but not under these particular circumstances. There was a difference between incidental nakedness, and nakedness with intent. I had to look away and catch my breath.

“Edge.”

“Yes.”

“Why are your clothes still on.”

“I don’t know.” I kissed his neck again. I must have dreamed of kissing his neck for years; I couldn’t stop. The butterfly pulse, the salt taste of his skin. “Free me. Liberate me from this sartorial prison.”

“Hm, could be difficult.” He fumbled with my shirt. His sweet clumsy fingers, his bitten nails. “And these fucking Levi’s button-fly fuckers. Why do you insist on wearing them?”

“They’re cool. Didn’t you see the advert? With the guy singing on the street corner? _I got those Levi’s five-oh-one—_ ”

“Shut up, The Edge, okay?”

And so I found myself, naked and chastised, kissing Bono, who was also naked. Kissing him properly, good and hard. Savoring the faint taste of whisky on his tongue, and the stupid miniature cigars, and something cool and minty, and the taste of himself. Finally feeling all the heat and weight and texture of one another in a bed we could call our own, at least for now. No one looking for us, no one waiting for us. Not for hours, anyway. Bono held me between his thighs, he moved underneath me. I closed my eyes and fell into a reddish darkness until he caught my lower lip between his teeth. A tiny exquisite pain. I opened my eyes again and found him looking at me with a tenderness that was almost more than I could take.

“Sweetheart,” I said. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

“You have no idea how good it is to be seen by you, love.”

I rubbed my cheek against his. We were both covered in five o’clock shadow; we made rough sandpapery sounds. We laughed. His hair in inky little whorls on the pillow. I hid my face in his neck again, so warm, that place where his voice lived. His hands roving over my back, grabbing at bits of me. He whispered, _Edge, Edge_ , till it sounded like a nonsense word, which it was of course, but I would have given up years of my life just to hear him keep saying it for the rest of that night.

The floodgates opened again as they had that afternoon, but I didn’t care what I said anymore. It would all be all right. “My blue-eyed boy,” I murmured. “My pretty, my hummingbird, my sunshine, my sweet. My suite-judy-blue-eyes.”

“My God, Edge.” Laughing, slipping into his old street-urchin talk. “Would you ever shut the fuck up.”

“Must I really?”

“No, of course not. You secret poet, you. You can write the lyrics from now on.” Holding my face between his palms, stroking me with his thumbs, kissing my lips. The top one, the bottom one. Taking my chin gently between his teeth for a few seconds. “You’re so pretty, my God, with your almond eyes. You have no idea, do you. Here, give me your hand. No, the left one. Ah, look how gorgeous it is. So slim and perfect, such long fingers. And all full of music.”

He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my palm, then took my little finger in his mouth. Warm and wet. Little finger, then ring finger, then middle finger. Index finger last, but best. I watched his lips encircle it, I watched it disappear into his mouth, his tongue teasing the underside, the callus on my fingertip, his eyes closed as if he were tasting something sweet.

“God, Bono…” How I ached to be inside him, somewhere, anywhere.

But even more, I wanted to make up for the unfinished business of the afternoon—or the afternoon before that—or whatever day this was.

I took my hand back and kissed his lips, as gently as I could, as if he were something delicate and precious, which he was—which he _is_ —and began to leave a trail of kisses under his chin, down his neck and chest, along all the hard and the soft places of him. I stroked his hip, the almost feminine curve of it, and his thighs that were hard and taut from a million onstage lunges, but also gorgeously rounded. I wondered why the Washington Post film reviewer hadn’t mentioned them as well. I rubbed my face in his belly, his skin, his soft hair. “You’re gorgeous, you’re perfect.”

“Edge.”

It suited Bono to have such a generous body—generous was a good word for him. A generous body that was now straining upward in the darkness.

“Edge…please.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

I had never done this before, with a man. But then I had never felt this way about any other man. This was the body Bono lived in, and I loved it, and I wanted to take care of him. It seemed the simplest thing in the world to take him in my hand, and then into my mouth. I heard him gasp, I heard him say _God_ , and I knew exactly what he was feeling, no mystery to me, no wondering whether I was doing something wrong, or causing pain. I understood perfectly his body rippling beneath me, and his hand on the back of my neck, reassuring me, gathering my hair out of the way so he could watch me. So he could watch me suck his cock.

I heard him say _God_ and _Edge_ again as if from a distance, while I was lost in the clean scent of him, and in the texture of the skin that must be the softest and thinnest on a man’s body, barely any protection for all the nerve endings underneath, and it was good to hear the the little volley of _oh’s_ that escaped his throat when I flicked my tongue over the tip, to gather the little bit of wetness there, something like seawater. Wouldn’t the auburn girl like to have heard that. Wouldn’t stadiums full of randy girls love to hear the sounds he was making now, sounds he only hinted at when he sang.

His hand on the back of my neck became more insistent, and he gave my hair a couple of pulls that almost hurt, but I didn’t mind, I loved it, I was doing this to him, this act of incredible intimacy and trust. I took him in as deeply as I could, again and again. I saw his other hand grasping the sheets. He began thrusting in a way that I wasn’t quite ready for, he saw this, and stopped, and touched my face, and said “is this okay?” And I said “yes.” Yes, because I loved this. I loved the taste of him, I loved having him inside me this way, I loved giving him this pleasure.

And I loved every word and incoherent sound he called out when he came, my name mixed in with the names of the triune God, my good good Irish boy after all, who tasted like the ocean at Bray, and I swallowed, and I was certain this must be some kind of holy communion.

*

  
“Edge, love, come here.”

“I’m here, amn’t I?”

“No, come up here. Lie next to me.”

I did his bidding. He pulled the blankets up over us, put his arms around me and held me against his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, B. Are you?”

He laughed. “What do _you_ think?”

In truth I was hard, and dying, and grinding a little against his thigh, but it was just fine. I didn’t really care what happened next. I was happy. I touched his face, stroked his hair. “You’re really so beautiful.”

“Stop saying that. It’s ridiculous.” He smiled though; he couldn’t help it.

“But it’s true.”

He kissed me. “Oh Edge, your poor pretty mouth.” Kissed me again. Rose to his knees, let the blankets fall away again. “Now I’m gonna take care of _you_ Edge, my buddy, my old pal.”

It almost hurt to laugh. “It’s all right, I won’t last, just stay where you are. Stay close to me.” I took his hand, pulled it toward me. “Just touch me, please.”

“With pleasure, beautiful Edge.”

I loved him. I knew it then. It was terrible, awful, hitting me in waves along with my orgasm. I would do anything, anything. No matter what happened to either of us for the rest of our lives, this would be my truth. I loved him. And I’m afraid I told him so, over and over again.

*

“Look at that sunrise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky quite so red.”

“I think we need a better word than red. Scarlet?”

“No, that sounds like the sky is embarrassed. Crimson. The crimson sky.”

*

And yet, musically, nothing got any easier. Over the weeks that followed, the struggle to carve real songs out of the mess of noise we had been making continued. It was a grind, like an office job. Or the way I imagined an office job would feel—if, say, you were having an explosive, ecstatic affair with the person in the next cubicle. I maintained a serious disposition at Hansa. Kept things businesslike with Bono. Tuned up as loudly as I could even though I know it irritated the bejaysis out of Larry, because—I’m told—this is what I do when I’m unhappy. The idea was to let everyone think I was still upset about _one_ situation, when in truth this _other_ situation was quickly eclipsing everything else.

Sometimes I went off alone, just so I could lean against a wall and close my eyes and breathe.

Sometimes I brought Bono with me.

I fretted that our new—level of friendship?—was getting in the way of the music, because we couldn’t feel free to express in song what was occupying us so completely.

And then, toward the end of a particularly long day, when it dawned on us all that we’d been in Berlin for a month without much to show for our trouble, and Larry was looking daggers at Bono, and Adam was just looking sad, and Brian and Danny both seemed ready to roll out of the nearest window—on this nadir of days, a deceptively simple chord progression detached itself from the chugging mess we’d been making.

_A minor, D, F, G._

No big deal, absolutely ordinary chords. The stuff you learn in your first week of guitar lessons. No diminished sevenths, no barres, no funny business. But we all stopped what we were doing and looked at each other.

“Would you listen to that. There they are. The secret chords…that David played, and they pleased the Lord.” That was Bono, paraphrasing Leonard Cohen; smiling like daybreak.

“You’d best not be calling me David.”

“Of course not, The Edge.”

We began to build a song around this little kindergarten chord progression that was so hard to describe. Was it sad or uplifting? We couldn’t say. We were all fascinated by it, by our own process, how suddenly we could all face each other again, closing the circle, ignoring the crew. How each one of us knew just when to come in. How the song just descended on us, the rightness of it. I’m fairly sure each one of us stepped away at some point to cry with relief. Because we were still, after everything, Us.

Then we sat around and played it back, and talked about it.

“I like how each instrument starts quietly and just builds and builds throughout.”

“Is there even a bridge?”

“Well, there’s a chorus. I think. It just builds actually, doesn’t it. There’s no real resolution.”

(A secret smile between Bono and me.)

“It’s nothing like the blues, anyway. Thank feck.”

“No, it’s more like a feeling of impending…not anguish. That’s certainly not the right word.”

“I’ve got one line I can definitely use. Listen: _you say, ‘one love, one life,’ when it’s one need in the night…”_

“God. That’s lovely.” This from Larry, of all people. “What made you think of it?”

“Something Edge and I were talking about recently.”

Larry and Adam nodded respectfully, presuming that they knew the whole story.

“It’s really sort of the sound of nonspecific longing isn’t it? ‘Will some lover or parent or deity ever be able to make me feel like I don’t have this open wound at my core?’”

“Adam, my God! The _insight_ of you!”

“It’s a…bittersweet song about disunity, I think. And yet some idiots will surely end up using it for their wedding.”

“Edge.”

“Yes, Larry?”

“I hate to be the one to have to tell you, but I feel you need to know.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “This song doesn’t sound _anything_ like Einstürzende Neubauten.”

_Das Ende!_


End file.
